


Nazi Centric Vignettes

by unoriginal_platypus



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: 5 half drabble meme, Ficlet Collection, Implied Relationships, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Misery, One-Sided Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Third Person, Pining, Russian Roulette, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Vignette, i stole this idea from a boston legal fic, just blue man things, nazi pov, sharing is for commies, so there are naughty words, the One Bed trope, this is an excuse to write angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29560563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unoriginal_platypus/pseuds/unoriginal_platypus
Summary: this is loosely based off this fic https://archiveofourown.org/works/494055essentially short fics prompted by the fifth line in a randomly selected poem. sounds weird, but it was fun :)
Relationships: Communist/White Identitarian | Nazi (Centricide)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 27





	1. "Whom am I to talk to?"

**Author's Note:**

> i've never posted anything for centricide before, and i edited while listening to vocaloid so... make of that what you will
> 
> link to the og inspiration: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494055 . the basic idea is to use a random poem generator, pick the fifth line of said poem and then use it as a prompt. you're supposed to do this five times.
> 
> this first one is Nazi POV and prompted by this line, "Whom am I to talk to?"

The meeting had gone smoothly, like the one before it. 

Not that there was much to wrinkle things, not with the other Nationalists. You had to really dissect their words to pull out a live, wriggling argument. But with Conservative champing at the bit to keep things nice and civil, all of the would-be-quarrels died before they dared leave the cocoon. 

Today, Nazi had brought up the curious, and ever inflammatory relation between race and IQ when Pan-Africanism was giving his two cents on the topic of: who-the-fuck-cares. It was half assed attempt to start a fight, but Evola, the meetings could be dull.

Besides, with the others, that small spark would have been more than enough.

See, if he tried that line with the leftists, which he often had, they would have started World War 2: 2 in the living room, and Ancap would have robbed them all blind for property damages by the end of it. Afterwards, Commie would cook dinner, Ancap would play Nazi in COD, Ancom would serve as white noise, and they’d bicker and squabble until bed.

But no such luck. Pan-Africanism only scoffed and continued his pitch, Conservative asked him not to interrupt, the degenerate scrolled through his phone, and the centrist scum faded into the wall behind him. 

So when the meeting adjourned, and all the members went their separate ways, Nazi felt just as alone as when they had all been sitting beside him. 

- **\- - - -**

  
  


One hand fisted in crisp bed sheets. 

Then smoothed them back again, placating. Like buttoning and unbuttoning, picking and then bandaging. You latch on to habits over the decades. Routines.

There was only a little comfort in that. 

The walls were closing in around him, suffocating in his small bedroom. Nazi expected it. Another familiar routine, newer than the others. 

Come home, open the fridge, close it, turn on the PC, turn it off, pace, pace, pace, sit. And then that aching, choking, detestable feeling. Followed by the walls. Crowding in until he was drowning in blue. Then came the final solution; in the bedside drawer, second from the bottom. 

It was routine.

  
  


Before, back, back, and further back still, Nazi might have swallowed his shame, given into the starving creature inside him, and walked across the hall. When there was yet a hall to cross. Knocked on the door. Cursed himself thoroughly. Given in anyway.

A toast to warmth, weakness, and someone with whom you could talk.

For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, or, in this case, until duty and affiliation divides us.

But that was before, and only the mentally inferior leech onto the past. The memory fell away and splattered on the sheets, an irreparable stain.

  
  


Now, the cool weight of the revolver in his hand pushed the walls back. 

Idly, he spun the chamber. There was one bullet inside, like everyday before it. 

There was some comfort in that. Hah. 

  
  


Focus.

  
  


Sweat wet his palms, his lips were bone dry. He licked them, but in just seconds the saliva had set.

Clarity of mind was rare these days, but with his finger taut and the revolver ready to play, Nazi was a sure shot. This little routine could only win so many times. You can only lose so many times.

In came a rush of breath, in came the walls, and his resolve tightened.

Distantly, in another world perhaps, a telephone was ringing. On and on, like some sick parade's call to arms.

The blood rushing in his veins roared, "To victory! To glory!" 

He pulled the trigger.

  
  


**_click_ **

  
  


The hollow sound resounded in the silence.

Out came the held breath, slow and dragging. 

Empty, empty; dry and empty. 

Just like yesterday, the day before, and tomorrow as well.

The gun clattered onto the floor, scraping hardwood. Nazi buried his head into his hands and screamed. It stuck in his throat, strangled and pained.

There was a raw comfort in that.

Closer now, the telephone kept ringing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments? any comments for the poor? 
> 
> if you are a fellow blue jreg enjoyer hello and godspeed.  
> anyhow i may or may not be posting more, so if you liked this 600 word mess then perhaps stick around?


	2. "the traffic light on houston. he sleeps"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are slurs so if u care you got your trigger warning

It must have been nearly two in the morning, but there were no clocks on the wall to be sure of it. Only the steady beat of the crossing light through the blinds betrayed the passing of time. 

Green.

Red.

Green.

The room was bathed in slats of red, raining down from the window above his bed. It diluted the decaying yellow of the motel walls, washed out the blue of night. Then it switched off, and neon green replaced it. He hated the color.

Go.

Stop.

Go.

Nazi should stop. He hadn’t slept since the two of them had first planned to launch the attack on the Centrists. That was two, no; three days ago. 

It wasn’t nerves, it couldn't be nerves. He wasn’t like the leftists, slaves to every fleeting feeling. 

Weak. 

Foolish.

But tonight, once again awash in that crimson glow, maybe he could give an inch.

In the armchair, across the room, the Communist was asleep. His mouth was barely open, a soft snoring just barely audible. Nazi would have to hold his breath to hear it. 

His ushanka was still on his head, but it was askew. A dark curl caught the red light. 

  


**\- - - - -**

There had only been one room available in the shitty motel, the only place in Ancapistan they could afford after the entrance fee. Typical kikes. And it was a single room to boot. Commie didn’t seem to mind, he only shrugged.

“All men can share during times of war, yes?”

Nazi’s face flushed, and he coughed.

“We’ll take the room.”

The bored spic at the front desk took their money and went back to her phone. A cockroach scuttled towards Nazi’s foot. 

He ground it into the carpet. 

The stereo in the wall blared a tinny pop song. Something about helicopters and oceans. Commie pressed the elevator button, and beckoned him over. 

The doors opened, no one got off, and they stepped in.

**\- - - - -**

He wasn’t disappointed when the Communist didn’t even spare the dingy bed a glance. He sat in the threadbare armchair instead, and began taking off his boots.

Whistled lightly.

Nazi stood stiffly by the door, glancing between the other ideology and the bed and nothing in particular.

Like some kind of dog, Commie seemed to smell the tension, and looked up. He followed Nazi's gaze, then shrugged and went back to his boots.

“Have the bed, comrade. You haven’t slept for a good time now.”

Nazi tensed, but forced himself smooth.

“What, have you been watching me sleep like some kind of lovesick faggot? And I’m not tired, the walk here was a breeze!” 

His bones felt like lead, and it had taken seven hours of marching just to make it to Ancapistan’s gates.

Commie barked out a laugh, then stood, crossing the small room in a few steps.

He reached out and brushed under Nazi’s left eye, so gently he could have missed it if he had blinked. A treacherous shiver traveled down his spine. 

He opened his mouth to curse the degenerate Slav to Israel and back, but the other interrupted him first.

“You have bags underneath your eyes,” He stepped away, and Nazi’s legs took one step after him, of their own accord, “Take the bed, or don’t.”

The Communist turned away and stepped into the bathroom. The door clicked shut after him.

By the time the door opened again, the bedroom light was off, and Nazi was curled up, wide awake, under the bedsheets. He heard a small chuckle, then shuffling as the other settled into the old chair. 

Then silence took them both.

  
**\- - - - -**

The crossing was green again, color polluting the room.

Nazi was lying on his side, covers pulled up to his chin. His uniform would be wrinkled the next day, he hadn’t bothered to change. 

The Communist was still asleep, chest rising and falling under an old sleepshirt. His snoring had stopped, maybe five light changes ago.

Harsh streetlights framed him in contrasting hues, pulling out his features. The line of his jaw, curve of his Adam's apple, muscles in his forearms. 

He looked strong, terrible, and worn. Nazi’s chest tightened with something he couldn’t push away.

Red poured through the window, and it reflected in Commie’s eyes. They were trained on him, for how long, he couldn’t say.

The air seemed to fall out of the room. 

For what seemed like hours, they stared at each other. A cool stalemate.

Then Commie broke it; leaning back in his chair, and sighed.

  
  
“You Nazi’s are always hypocrite, saying one thing and doing the other.” He smiled not unkindly, and his voice was rough with sleep.

Nazi didn’t say a word, but he didn’t close his eyes.

Instead, he stood up. 

Immediately, he berated himself. 

What in the Fuhrer's name was he doing? He could’ve rolled over, pretended to sleep. Now he was gathering up the top duvet in his arms, and Commie was watching him, confused.

He took a step, and then two, and then he was staring down at the other. Before he could speak, Nazi threw the blanket at him. 

“Compatriots share, right?”

For a second, the Communist just sat there, holding the blanket dumbly in his arms. Like he’d never seen one before.

Briefly, Nazi considered grabbing it back, wrapping himself in it, and walking all the way back to the Extremist’s house.

Then Commie pulled the duvet around himself, shaking his head. 

“Yes, yes, they do. Now, get some sleep Comrade, tomorrow you will surely need it!” He reached out and patted Nazi’s arm. The touch lingered after the hand left.

And despite himself, despite everything, Nazi nodded, and went back to bed.

He slept a dreamless sleep. They were dressed and gone before dawn.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm suprising myself by posting again, wow
> 
> hopefully i didn't botch this too much lol i have never written commie before and i know jack about communism 
> 
> even if u comment hate i'll lick it up, i take any form of validation


End file.
